More Cowbell
by PuffPiece
Summary: Dean's hurt. Sam's the comfort. The pain's intense. And the medications make things interesting.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Author's Note: Update – still ruminating over Head Over Wheels; not abandoned. Working on follow-up to Killer Curbs. Other ideas percolating but yours are always welcome!

The deer came out of nowhere.

So did the embankment.

Dean didn't have the time to correct from the swerve caused by the first nor the space to avoid the second.

And as the Impala comes to a sudden jarring halt, he doesn't have the consciousness to care.

()o()o()o()o()

When Sam comes to, it's with a moan and a curse, holding the right side of his head where it made rather enthusiastic contact with the window beside him. His hand remains dry as he prods the area and he's hopeful that the tender goose egg is the worst of his injuries.

So far, so good.

He'd been sleeping, waking momentarily at Dean's low muttered curses to feel the car careening out of control, only to get knocked out shortly thereafter.

Recalling the events, he gingerly turns his head to the left, wincing as the change in direction causes his brain to throb in time with his heartbeat.

He's able to make out Dean's shape in the bright light of the moon, sees his brother's head reclined against the back of the driver's seat, eyes closed, looking for all the world like he's just taking a nap behind the wheel. The steady rise and fall of his chest combined with the lack of visible dark puddles of blood settle Sam's unease for the briefest of moments.

"Dean! Hey!" Sam calls, reaching across the seat and gently tapping Dean's cheek.

Dean gives a moan, closed eyes scrunching tightly before opening slowly. "Fucking wildlife, man," he mumbles, putting Sam at ease once more. "You okay?" he asks his younger brother, number one priority always on the forefront of his mind.

"I think so," Sam says, rubbing his forehead gingerly to double check himself. "You?"

Dean gives a nod, finding the lack of headache, visible blood, or protruding organs to be reassuring signs. And then he tries to shift his position.

"ARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!" His scream reverberates through the otherwise quiet night air, surprising both of the Winchesters in its vehemence.

He can feel the cold sweat beading along the back of his neck and across his forehead while the nausea roils in his gut, his right hip protesting violently in response to the miniscule amount of motion he'd tried to perform.

"Oh my Fucking God!" he grinds out, clenching his teeth as he tries to keep his stomach from emptying itself right there on the spot. He tightens his hands around the steering wheel, trying desperately to brace himself against the hell that's emanating from the top of his right leg.

"Dean! What?" Sam's eyes are wide, frozen in disbelief at his brother's sudden change in demeanor.

"Shitshitshit," is Dean's only reply, unable to either move further or give a proper answer to Sam's inquiry.

"Come on, man. Talk to me." Sam reaches out and places his hand on the steering wheel next to Dean's. Then slightly regrets it when Dean takes his hand in a death grip, threatening to break bones as he squeezes in response to the pain.

"Right hip," Dean pants. "Or leg. Something. I don't know." He gives another low moan, eyes clenched tightly close in an effort to block out any further painful assaults.

"Okay," Sam says, shaking out his hand vigorously when Dean finally relents his grip. "Don't move."

Dean gives a strangled laugh, groaning at the pain that blossoms again at even that slight motion. "No shit Sam. Not going anywhere. Can't move."

It's not that he couldn't get out of the car – he's not pinned; it won't take the jaws of life to get him out. It's that he can't move. Quite literally cannot move his right leg from its current position; it feels like it's stuck.

Sam does a quick inspection of Dean's side of the car, breathes a sigh of relief to find that he's not trapped under anything, then gets a look at the way Dean's right hip doesn't look quite right. His eyes widen a bit when he sees the way his thigh angles inwards a little too much to be normal, then schools his features and gets his butt in gear.

Sam gropes through his jacket pockets, pulling out his cell phone triumphantly and breathing a sigh of relief when the screen lights up at his touch. He moves the phone around a bit, trying to get a signal, then hastens a glance at his brother.

"Go Sam. I'll be fine," Dean says in between hitched breaths. If he doesn't pass out first.

Sam gives his brother another quick look before scrambling out of the car, steeling himself against the stifled curses he can hear from Dean as the car shifts upon his exit.

He quickly stumbles up the side of the embankment, holding the phone as high as he can in hopes of getting a signal, letting out a brief prayer of thanks when he gets several bars at the side of the road.

"911. What's your emergency?"

Sam gives the operator all the information he has, which isn't much, but it's enough to get an ambulance crew headed their direction.

"Ok sir, just try to keep him calm and don't move him."

"Not a problem," he mutters in response to the second part of the directive – Dean's not going anywhere without help. As to the first part – his brother's usually pretty good about keeping his shit together, but Sam thinks he might need all the help he can get tonight.

Sam's absence allows Dean to lose control for just a few seconds. Allows a few tears to leak out of the corner of his eye. Allows a couple of choked sobs to escape his lips. He's had a lot of injuries; this could easily be the most excruciating one ever. And he hasn't even really moved yet.

He works to pull himself back together when he hears Sam scuffling down the embankment back towards the car.

"Okay," Sam says, resettling himself carefully in the passenger's seat and angling his body to face his brother. "Ambulance is on their way."

Dean gives a single nod of understanding, takes a deep shaky breath and slowly blows it out between pursed lips, repeating the process several times before Sam speaks again.

"Anything else hurt?"

Dean works through another cycle of deep breathing, methodically working to take stock of the rest of his body before finally giving a barely perceptible shake of his head.

"Okay, well that's good," replies Sam, gnawing on his lower lip as he wracks his brain in an effort to take Dean's mind off of his current situation.

"Hey man," Sam says after several minutes of tense silence, brain cells finally overcoming his brother's hitched breathing, "you remember the first strip club you took me to?"

Dean throws Sam a glance out of the corner of his eye, eyebrows furrowed in a "What the hell?" expression at his brother's seemingly out of the blue question while he continues his quest to keep his focus on his breathing instead of the agony in his hip.

"Saginaw. Or maybe it was Syracuse," Sam draws out, appearing deep in thought as he tries to come up with the correct city.

"Cincinnati," Dean grinds out when Sam fails to come up with the correct answer. "The Cin Bin." A fleeting smile quirks its way onto the corner of his mouth before the pain chases it away. That place has always been one of his favorites. Cheap liquor. Good steaks. Great women. Dean makes a mental note to stop in for Old Times Sake the next time they're within a fifty-mile radius.

"Yeah, right," Sam says, nodding absently when he hears the correct names from his brother. "You remember the first time you took me there?" Sam's racked his brain for topics most likely to take his brother's mind off of his current situation, and he figures food and strippers are as good a combination as any to get the job done.

"Yeah," Dean hisses, clenching his jaw through another wave of pain.

Sam can see the exact moment that the pain eases just a bit, catches the way Dean's grip loosens slightly on the steering wheel and the slower, more controlled breath he blows out before continuing.

"Thought your head was going to explode."

Sam can feel his face flush at the memory. He'd been thirteen, Dean seventeen. And while Dean had been born to frequent the seedy underbelly of Americana, those types of places still give Sam the skeeves.

Sam wonders yet again if the two of them are really related.

"How'd you even get me into that place anyway?" he asks, belatedly considering that he might not actually want to know the types of nefarious activities his older brother had to engage in in order to secure his entrance.

"Relax man," Dean says, correctly reading the expression on his little brother's face. "Nothing that would have put your delicate sensitivities on edge," he explains, the teasing train of thought quickly derailed when the pain in his hip ramps up for another torture session. This wave takes his breath away and Sam considers actually reminding his older brother to breathe before Dean finally manages to suck in a ragged breath, hissing it out between his teeth as slowly as he can in an effort to gain some control over his traitorous body.

When the pain ebbs just enough to allow conscious thoughts back into Dean's brain, he continues. "They thought you were cute. Like a little puppy. They let you in as a mascot."

"Shut up," Sam huffs out, now definitely regretting his choice of conversation. "Hey, you remember that bar dad used to take us to?" he asks, trying to redirect the conversation to something that won't end up with him as the butt of the joke.

Dean slides his glance back towards his younger brother, the raised eyebrows telling Sam nonverbally that he's going to have to narrow that down a bit.

"You know. That one with the illegal poker game in the back he thought we didn't know anything about?"

Dean snorts as he recalls the memory in question, letting out a moan at his mistaken movement. "Yeah. It's a wonder we grew up into the fine upstanding citizens we are."

Sam huffs out a laugh of agreement at Dean's sarcastic comment – the irony being that they actually do try their best to save people and make the country a safer place. Just not in the most legal of manners.

"Wasn't that the place where that waitress with the blue hair used to call you her handsome little man?" Sam adds, trying to keep his dimples in check.

"Shut up, bitch," Dean replies, his words lacking any real conviction as he recalls the older woman in question. "She was good to us."

"You don't think she and dad ever…" Sam trails off, not wanting any images of the chain-smoking baritone-voiced woman and their father engaged in questionable activities to make an appearance in his mind's eye.

"Ewwww, dude!" Dean says, recoiling as the same thought takes hold in his own head. Luckily for him, the pain that his recoil evokes erases said thought from his brain, replacing it with a desire for nothing more than blissful unawareness.

Unluckily for him, that doesn't come.

What does come is the ambulance, blue strobe lights flashing its heroic arrival, both brothers letting out relieved breaths at the impending arrival of some help.

And drugs.

Dean's especially looking forward to the drugs.

 _ **To Be Continued**_

Author's Note 2: So, Part 1 is the hurt/comfort. Stay tuned for Part 2 which is where the humor resides…


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Author's Note: Thought this story was 2 parts; I lied (unwittingly) – it's 3. Hang in there…

"I'll be right back," Sam tells Dean, scrambling out of the car to make sure the paramedics can find the Impala and its precious cargo.

Even with the level of care Sam takes to get himself out of the car with a minimal amount of jostling, it's more than enough to make Dean's hip flare back up from "Oh shit" to "Someone just please knock me the hell out already".

And so he starts humming in an effort to keep himself otherwise occupied now that's Sam's incessant chatter isn't keeping his brain from focusing on the hellfire that is his right hip. His choice of song doesn't even register in its inappropriateness; he just needs something to calm him down and figures this one's as good as any.

A sharp knock against the driver's side window is accompanied by the bright lights of an industrial flashlight; the cavalry has arrived. Dean hopes with drugs. Lots of them. Because this is gonna hurt.

"Dude, is that _Don't Fear the Reaper_?" asks the older paramedic, a rail thin jovial guy named Zeke who's in the process of starting the IV line in his left arm so they can give him some pain meds before they start to move him. "Little premature, don't you think?" He gives a chuckle at his own joke and then tries for reassurance. "Don't worry man, we'll take good care of you."

Dean gives a quick nod, not breaking his rhythm as he hums the chorus of the Blue Öyster Cult song, his hands cramping around the steering wheel in response to his white-knuckled grip.

"Just let him be," says Sam, anxiously looking on as the other paramedic, a big guy named Lyle who looks like he spends all of his free time at the gym, is busy calculating the best angles to get his brother and his likely dislocated and/or broken hip out of the car without causing further damage. "It keeps him calm. Believe me, it's for all of our own good. Even if it does sound like a dying cat."

Dean doesn't even spare him an eye roll, just keeps humming softly, waiting for the Morphine to begin to bring him down off the edge of agony.

"Okay man," says Lyle several minutes later. "You ready for us to get you out of there?"

Dean catches Sam's eye, taking in the worried look on his younger brother's face, and does his best to shove his own fear deep down inside. He takes in one last deep breath, blowing it out with as much control as he can muster, and then says, "Yeah. Let's do this."

A statement he so regrets within the first few seconds of the extraction process.

Lyle's taken it upon himself to be the stabilizer of Dean's right leg, Zeke and Sam working to get his upper body and left leg out of the car while Dean himself works on not crying like a baby.

Sam wishes he would just pass out already; it would make all of their lives a lot easier.

But Dean's never been one to take the easy way out, so he stays awake and alert, feeling every excruciating slight movement in his right hip as his body is maneuvered across the seat and onto the waiting backboard, the otherwise still night air punctuated by Dean's impassioned verbal assaults.

Zeke and Lyle make quick work of strapping him onto the gurney, laying him slightly on his left side and bolstering his right hip and leg with blankets and pillows. Even now that he's out of the car he can't move his leg – it's still stuck in the same position it was in while he was sitting down. It really feels like it needs to pop back into joint, kind of like when his shoulder is out, only a million times worse. A plea he tries several times with the paramedics, but to no avail.

"No way man," says Lyle, shaking his head vehemently. "You could have fractures in there, we could sever an artery or a nerve. You need xrays, maybe a CT scan, probably some more drugs, and then the doctors will take care of you."

"How's she look?" Dean asks, panting through the pain the last bit of jostling triggered, the death grip he has on Sam's hand in danger of breaking his little brother's appendage while the paramedics work to get him situated in the ambulance. The pain meds really haven't done much so far and Dean's doing his best to keep himself from freaking the fuck out right now, Sam's grip keeping him grounded while offering the most miniscule of outlets to his pain.

"What?" Sam asks, confused with the randomness of Dean's question. "The stripper? The waitress?" he adds, wracking his brain in an effort to figure out which woman in their recent conversation his brother could possibly be referring to. "How should I know?" he says, shrugging his apologies to the paramedics who take Dean's seemingly random question in stride.

Dean gives him a half-hearted eye roll, all he can manage to eke out past the mind-numbing pain. "No dumbass. The car. How's my baby?"

Sam gives him a shifty glance; he's been so focused on his brother that he hasn't really given the car a second thought up to this point. "Want me to go take a look?"

Dean gives it a brief thought and it's a testament to his level of pain that he gives his head a small shake; he'd rather have Sam at his side.

"Okay," says Sam, knowing it's bad when his brother actually puts himself ahead of his most prized possession. "I'll give Bobby a call."

()o()o()o()o()

Dean's arrival in the ER is heralded by a general whirlwind of activity, nurses and medical staff scurrying around the young man as they whisk him into the waiting trauma bay, while Sam's is met with paperwork.

The staff are nice enough, keeping him updated on a regular basis and allowing him into the exam room as soon as they've determined that Dean doesn't have any life-threatening injuries that need to be tended to.

They also give Sam the once-over, satisfied that the bump on his head and sore hand (courtesy of Dean's death grip) don't require any imaging studies of their own.

"Your brother is one lucky guy," says the ER doctor who's been the lead on Dean's initial care as he finishes up with Sam's own exam. "His imaging studies look reassuring - no internal organ damage, doesn't look like he has any fractures. He's got a dislocated hip but other than that it looks like he's okay."

"Yeah, but…" Sam says, absently shaking out his hand, the significance of Dean's one injury not lost on him.

"Usually this type of dislocation is caused by a high-impact car accident," the doctor adds at Sam's wary expression, "when the knee hits the dashboard driving the hip backwards out of the socket while the knee's flexed. And in car accidents like that there's usually associated chest or abdominal trauma, not to mention head trauma."

Sam lets out a low whistle, rethinking his initial reaction to the doctor's words and now considering Dean very lucky indeed.

"We still have our work cut out for us," says the doctor. "Your brother looks like a fairly muscular guy. And all of those muscles are going to be fighting us when we try to get that hip back in place. Not to mention the fact that it's still going to hurt quite a bit. We've given him some pretty heavy duty pain medications along with some muscle relaxants, then when those muscles are relaxed enough we'll give him some medications so he won't remember what we're doing – something called conscious sedation."

Sam snorts, mind already projecting ahead to the long night in front of him and his brother's reaction to medications.

This could get interesting.

()o()o()o()o()

"Hey man," Sam says, taking his place back by Dean's side, again extending his abused hand as a sacrificial offering.

"Hey," Dean replies, the grip on Sam's hand nowhere near as desperate as it had been, his voice now with an edge of relaxation to it.

"I see they're giving you the good stuff now, huh?" Sam adds, noting the lack of pain on his brother's face as well. "Feeling any better?"

"So much better, Sammy," Dean says, eyelids heavy as he fights to keep them open.

"It's okay if you want to go to sleep now, Dean," Sam says, placing his free hand on Dean's head in a silent show of affection. He's got to sneak these in when he can with his emotion-averse older brother.

"Nah, I'm good," comes the slightly slurred response.

Sam leaves his hands where they are, thankful Dean's out of it enough to not fight what he would otherwise consider girly shows of affection, and can't help but bite back the smile that emerges when he hears his brother begin humming again.

The dimples emerge fully when Dean's rather tone-deaf humming gradually evolves into a gravelly version of Dean's apparent song du jour, the words to the chorus of _Don't Fear the Reaper_ rolling off his tongue in a rather drunken serenade.

"Hey Sam?" Dean asks, taking a break from his impromptu concert.

"Yeah, man. I'm here."

"Did you ever think about what it's all about?"

"What what's about?"

"You know. The Universe. Life. Joy. Sorrow. What we're doing here."

Sam's eyebrows creep skywards with each of his brother's words; Dean's not known for being the existential Winchester.

He leans forward, settling himself into the hard plastic chair in order to have a rather involved discussion with his brother, mind tripping back to one of his favorite Stanford philosophy classes. "Well, you know…" trailing off when Dean interrupts him.

"Hey Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you ever wonder how they get the spray cheese into the can?"

 _Ah,_ Sam says to himself, a resigned sigh escaping his lips. _That's more like it._

"Do you think maybe there's special cows? Like on some secret farm in Wisconsin?"

"Yeah. Sure," Sam says, disappointed but not overly surprised that he won't be having any Meaning of Life discussions with his brother.

"Hey Sam?"

"Uh huh."

"Why do strippers like glitter so much?"

Sam just shakes his head and huffs out a soft laugh at his brother's medication-soaked train of thought. "I don't know man. Why don't you ask them?" he replies, figuring that of the two of them, his brother is the one most likely to get up close and personal with the subject of the question.

Dean tries valiantly to raise his head, intent on asking the question to the first stripper he sees. "Here stripper, stripper, stripper," he calls, whistling softly like he's calling a runaway pet.

"Looks like we're getting close," says the nurse who's been taking care of Dean, picking that moment to enter the trauma room to check on her patient.

"Hey. Did I catch one?" Dean asks, sleepy voice serious in its tone.

"One what?" comes Sam's distracted reply, attention focused on the newest addition to the small trauma bay.

"A stripper. Did I catch one?"

"No Dean," Sam says, trying desperately to keep from laughing out loud at the disappointment on his brother's face, not wanting to offend the person in charge of his brother's medications. "That's your nurse."

"Oh." A lascivious smile stretches dopily across his face. "Stripper nurse. Awesome."

Sam just rolls his eyes at his brother, then begins to apologize profusely to Sharon, the middle-aged nurse who's been taking care of Dean.

"Don't worry about it," she says, completely unfazed. "Been called worse." She cocks her head to the side, an expression of deep thought crossing her face. "Come to think of it, 'stripper nurse' might be the nicest compliment anyone's given me tonight."

"Oh," Sam says, slightly impressed by her nonchalance at the scene playing out in front of her. "You must see some pretty interesting stuff then, huh?"

"Yeah. Just wait," she says with her own bland raised eyebrow. "This stuff sometimes takes crazy to a whole new level," she says, nodding at the sedative she's now injecting into Dean's IV.

 _Oh goody. Because things weren't weird enough already_ , thinks Sam.

()o()o()o()o()

It doesn't take long for the sedatives to kick in; in fact, Dean makes it through his own private karaoke song three more times before the medical team enters the trauma room, ready to get to work on reducing his dislocated hip.

Sam's a little taken aback by the sheer quantity of people now in their tiny little corner of the world, the orthopedic specialist explaining how despite the medications, Dean may very well put up a fight when they begin to move his hip.

The doctor does a few last tests, making sure the pulses in Dean's leg are still strong, humming along with the Blue Öyster Cult song Dean continues to grace the room with.

"Yeah. I like this guy," Dean says when the doctor compliments him on his choice of song.

A sentiment that's quickly reversed when he begins the arduous process of getting the hip back in place.

It takes several nurses and a rather large security guard to hold Dean down while the ER doctor and the orthopedic specialist work to get his hip back in its socket, Sam relegated to hand holder and nervous lip biter. Dean bucks under them (strong as ever despite his altered mental state), left leg scrabbling frantically against the gurney as he tries to escape the source of his agony, desperate pleas for everyone to "Stop Goddam It!" and "Let Go Motherfuckers!" ignored by everyone but Sam.

On the final tug, Dean lets out a tortured scream that echoes through the busy ER, his body sagging in relief when his hip finally clicks back in place.

The highly charged atmosphere in the trauma bay dissipates as all of the involved medical team let out a collective breath. Sam's practically gnawed off his own lip and he, too, feels the relief of having this part of their ordeal over with.

The doctors do a few range of motion tests, nodding their satisfaction when his hip stays in the socket, Dean now passively allowing their activity without a fight.

"Feels like it's back in place," says the orthopedic doctor to Sam. "We need to check it on xray, but I think it'll be fine. You guys need to hang out here for a while yet; the anesthesia needs to wear off and we need to keep checking his leg to make sure his pulses, nerves, and muscles are doing okay. Then hopefully you guys can get out of here in the morning."

Sam shakes the specialist's hand, thanking him for his role in helping his brother.

"No problem. That's the job." He takes a look over to the now peacefully resting male, a faint hum emanating from Dean's lips. "Although I suspect I might have had the easier of the jobs with this one."

At Sam's furrowed eyebrows, he adds, "The medications will take a while yet to get out of his system. And from what Sharon told me, you'll probably be in for an entertaining couple of hours yet. Good luck."

Truer words were never spoken.

 _ **TBC…**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"Dude, stay down," Sam says, instantly popping up from his seat in order to stand over Dean as he struggles to sit upright.

"Why Sammy?" he asks, voice sleepy as he pushes back against the gigantic Sam hand that's now planted firmly in the middle of his chest, pressing him back onto the bed in the small cubicle in the ER they'd moved him to when it was decided he no longer required the equipment of the trauma bay.

"Because you dislocated your hip, dumbass."

"What?" Dean pshaws, the expression of disbelief on his face mirroring his tone of voice. "I'm not ninety years old Sam. How could I have dislocated my hip?"

Sam rolls his eyes and ignores his brother's rhetorical question, having already answered it more times than he has fingers.

"Okay, fine," Dean says, finally relaxing back onto the bed after a few additional weak struggles. "I'll just lay down then."

Sam lets out a slight breath of relief, only to huff a deeper sigh when he has to keep Dean from trying to roll over onto his right side.

"Lay still," he says, doing his best to keep himself in check. It's not Dean's fault that he's still in la-la land, after all.

"Don't wanna," says a slightly petulant Dean. "Wanna lay on my side."

"No," says Sam, blowing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, "not that side you don't."

"Why not Sammy?" Dean whines.

"Cause you dislocated your hip, Dean."

"Did not."

"Yeah, Dean. You did."

"Stop being a such a buzzkill, man," Dean says, a look of annoyance crossing his face.

Sam's Bitch Face goes completely unnoticed by the high-as-a-kite older Winchester who has now decided that he'd like to flip over onto his stomach instead, yet another act that would require the use of his much-abused lower extremity.

Sam wonders if maybe Sharon could tie his brother down to the bed for the duration of his medication roller coaster, discarding the idea due to the high likelihood that the restraints would just make Dean freak out even more, likely causing more damage to his hip.

He has a brief flash of his brother in a full body cast, rendering him immobile, a wide swatch of Duct Tape covering his mouth as well.

Sam's lips twitch at that wistful thought, only to turn downwards once again when he has to jump to attention, quickly manhandling his brother back into the middle of the gurney, Dean having taken it upon himself to begin to slither downwards towards the end of the bed.

Sam wonders if hospital cafeterias have started serving alcoholic beverages yet.

()o()o()o()o()

"Sam!"

Dean's panicked exclamation rousts Sam from the tenuous hold he'd had on a couple of restful minutes, Dean having fallen asleep for what Sam had hoped would be the duration of his post-anesthesia care.

Wishful thinking.

"Sam!" Dean says again, the urgency in his voice mirrored by the frantic scrambling of his hands against the stiff white hospital blanket.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam says eyes raking his brother's form in search of any potential complications to his hip dislocation or its subsequent treatment.

"They stole my pants!"

"What?" Sam asks, the initial panic ebbing away.

"They stole my pants!" he reiterates, the worry evident on his face.

"Nobody stole your pants, dude," Sam says with patience he's not sure will last much longer.

Dean nods forcefully, looking under the blanket again to double check. "No pants, Sam. Somebody stole 'em."

"They had to cut them off of you Dean. You're in the ER. You dislocated your hip."

"What?" Dean asks, incredulous at Sam's comments. "Am I okay?"

"Yeah, Dean. You're fine." Sam doubts very much that Dean's hip will be "fine" for quite some time, but his brother is in no frame of mind to hear, let alone remember, that tidbit of information.

"Whew," Dean says, relief flooding his face before his forehead furrows again. "But Sam – where are my pants? I need my pants!"

"Oh my God," Sam mumbles, palming his face in his hand.

Dean's train of thought is on a one-way track that will not be diverted, his persistent inquiry echoing through the small cubicle until it threatens to send Sam upstairs to the locked psychiatric unit, if only for some peace and quiet.

So he placates his older brother, telling him on various occasions that his pants were cut off because he was in a car accident; are in the wash; are at Bobby's; are still on (he just can't see them because they're invisible); are at a top-secret government facility being tested for cooties; and were buried in a time capsule to show what dumbasses were wearing at the turn of the century.

Dean buys all of the explanations as Sam dishes them out (the cooties explanation causing a mild panic), then quickly needs his pants again 5 minutes later.

Sam wonders if maybe he can talk Dean's nurse into giving him something to keep him from committing fratricide tonight.

()o()o()o()o()

"Hey Sammy, remember those strippers?"

Sam doesn't even respond to his brother, having no frame of reference for his ramblings; Dean could be talking about the Cin Bin, the place he was at a couple of weeks ago after that job in Michigan, or one of the other myriad seedy establishments he frequents on a way too regular basis.

"They were nice," Dean continues, voice taking on a rather dreamy tone. "Smelled kind of funny though. Hope I didn't pick anything up. Can you pick stuff up just by looking? Maybe I should get my eyes tested."

Sam wonders if perhaps his brother shouldn't just go ahead and get everything tested.

()o()o()o()o()

"Hey Sammy, you think there are any vampires in here? Lots of blood. You'd think they'd hide out here; kind of like Vamp Central Station."

Sam's chair slams back to the ground, the relaxed tipped-back posture replaced by arms propped on his thighs as he looks furtively around, trying to shush his brother. After a couple of seconds, he realizes that Dean's ramblings have so far gone unnoticed by his nurse and any passersby, his state of mind basically giving him a free pass to say whatever's on his mind (much to Sam's chagrin).

So he decides to humor his brother, spending the next half an hour engaged in a rather serious discussion about the logistics of having a bunch of blood suckers running rampant in a medical facility.

And then Dean needs his pants again.

()o()o()o()o()

"Hey Sammy, you know what's a funny word? Fork," Dean says, stopping just short of giggling. "I mean, come on. Fork. Fork. Fork."

Sam wishes he had a fork right about now. If only to shove it into his brain and scramble his own brain cells which are begging to be put out of their misery.

He doubts the plastic spork that came with Dean's Jell-O will be of much use.

()o()o()o()o()

"Hey Sammy, what do you think the color Black tastes like?" Dean asks, the dreamy tone of his voice offset by the serious furrowing of his brow. "You think it tastes like everything all rolled together in one giant burrito? Or maybe like nothing; like the opposite of an all-you-can eat buffet."

Sam wonders which of Dean's meal options come with a side of crazy. Because that's the meal he's apparently ordered.

()o()o()o()o()

The brief reprieve Sam had been enjoying from Dean's incessant asinine ramblings comes to an end when his still loopy brother resumes his rather drunken serenade, _Don't Fear the Reaper_ still his brother's song of choice.

And while Dean's previous concerts had been limited to vocals, this performance adds percussion, the ring on his finger tapping against the metal bed rail in a regular rhythm that tickles at something in the back of Sam's head.

"Hey, Sam!" Dean calls out excitedly, finger still tapping out its staccato rhythm. "Guess what I need?"

"Your pants," says Sam blandly, resignedly steeling himself for a return to this unending argument.

"Pants?" Dean asked, a confused look his face. "What about my pants?"

Sam just shakes his head, wondering idly when the medications will stop scrambling his brother's short-term memory.

"Guess what I need?" Dean tries again, already forgetting Sam's comment about his pants.

"I don't know Dean. What do you need?"

"Sammy!" he cries out enthusiastically, "I need more cowbell!"

Sam can't help the combination laugh/snort that escapes him at his brother's exclamation, now recognizing the rhythm his brother had been tapping out as Will Farrell's cowbell from the Saturday Night Live sketch of the same name.

"Sammy! I got a fever! And the only prescription is more cowbell!" Dean says excitedly, quoting Christopher Walken's character.

Dean continues tapping out the cowbell rhythm, singing along with more gusto than Sam would have thought possible given the amount of medications still swimming around in his brother's system, ecstatic when the ER doctor sings a few bars with him while checking the pulse in his ankle.

"More cowbell Sammy!" he cries, waving at Sam to join in the commotion, the younger Winchester trying in vain to disappear from the embarrassment unfolding in front of him.

The passing security guard practically becomes Dean's new best friend when he tells a still caterwauling Dean, "Cowbell! Loved that skit!"

And Sharon just humors him. "Yep – cowbell. Got it."

Dean and his cowbell might not be the most exciting thing the ER staff has seen that night, but it's more than fair to say it is the most entertaining.

()o()o()o()o()

"Uhhhh," Dean moans, blowing out a couple of slow and steady breaths against the ache in his hip. "Fucking wildlife man," he says, cursing what he remembers about how he got into this mess.

"Hey man," Sam says, leaning on the railing to get a better look at his brother. "You back with me now?"

"What?" Dean asks, still groggy but back to his more usual self. "Did I go somewhere?" he asks, only half-joking, the last thing he really remembers being the ride in the ambulance.

"Yeah, dude," Sam says, ready to fill in the missing pieces of memory now that he won't have to keep repeating himself. "We're in the ER. You dislocated your hip. Got a lot of medications so they could put it back in." Sam snorts and rolls his eyes. "A _lot_ of medications."

"So when can I get out of here?" he asks, grimacing against the discomfort that flares with each small movement of his muscles.

"Pretty soon, if you're back with us again," says Sharon, checking his vitals and the pulse in his foot. "He good?" she asks, eyebrows raised in Sam's direction.

"Yeah," Sam says. "As good as he's going to get anyway," he adds, earning him a frown and a middle-fingered salute from the older Winchester. "Yep," he reiterates, his dimples making a quick appearance. "He's good."

"Alright, be right back," she says, leaving the brothers alone again in the small cubicle.

"Hey Sam?" Dean asks, sleepily serious.

"Yeah."

"Where are my pants?"

Sam huffs out a weary sigh and rolls his eyes, considering making a move to chase after Sharon in order to tell her Dean's not as ready as he'd thought.

"No seriously. I need some pants, man. I'm not walking out of here naked."

"Oh. Right." So Sam does make a move, finds Sharon in the hallway and pleads Dean's case for a pair of pants that haven't been cut to ribbons.

"Oh, Son of a Bitch," Dean says resignedly, laying his head back down on the bed when he sees the crutches Sharon is carrying with her in addition to a pair of hospital scrub pants. "Seriously?"

"Quite," she says, propping them against the wall next to Dean' bed while she pulls out his discharge papers. "Doctor's orders say no weight-bearing on that leg for a week, then you can gradually start to put pressure on it as is comfortable." She begins to unhook his IV and adds, "Believe me, you're not going to want to be putting any weight on that leg for a while anyway. My son dislocated his hip last year playing rugby. Big guy, twenty years old. Cried like a baby."

"Well thank God I at least didn't do that," Dean says, face scrunching up quickly as he wracks his brain to determine the accuracy of his words. "I didn't, did I?" he says, his worried glance bouncing between Sam and Sharon.

"Nope," Sharon says, "you were much more exciting. We could all use a little more cowbell around here. Even us stripper nurses."

Dean's face clearly shows his confusion, the past several hours completely wiped from his memory by his medication cocktail, while Sam struggles mightily to keep his smirking smile in check.

His brother may be a pain in the ass, but at least tonight he was an entertaining pain in the ass. Once he stopped being a pain in the ass.

Dean slowly struggles his way into a seated position with the help of Sam and Sharon, cursing and moaning as he works alternately to move and then not move his right leg. His right hand gently prods his hip, hissing slow and steady breaths out between his teeth as he tries to find a more comfortable position.

"You okay?" Sam asks, not liking the pallor that's starting to creep back onto his brother's face, glancing at Sharon to make sure this is all part of the process.

Dean takes a couple of deep breaths before giving his brother a nod of reassurance, echoing to same to the nurse who doesn't seem to be terribly surprised that he's still in pain.

"Can you give me a couple of minutes?" he asks Sharon. "Kind of need to put on my pants."

"Nothing I haven't seen before," she says before raising her eyebrows to Sam. "You got him?"

"Yeah. We're good. Thanks," Sam replies, thankful she didn't persist in sticking around, knowing that only would have served to make Dean crankier than he probably already will be.

"Alright, slow and easy," he says to his brother once the two of them are alone again, bracing himself to take some of Dean's weight as he slides carefully off the hospital bed, keeping his weight on his left leg.

Sam helps his brother struggle into the borrowed pants, Dean unable to move his right hip the necessary amount in order to get them on by himself. Ditto for his shoes.

"Alright Cowbell. You're good to go," says Sharon, handing over the discharge paperwork and a prescription for pain medications. "Good luck."

"What the hell, man?" Dean mumbles to Sam as he crutches his way out of the cubicle that's been his temporary motel room for the evening.

Sam just shrugs, careful to keep a look of innocent confusion on his own face. He hasn't yet decided when he'll let his big brother in on the impromptu concerts he'd performed tonight.

"Good luck Cowbell!" calls the security guard as the Winchesters pass his desk on the way out of the ER.

Dean throws Sam a "What the hell?" glance, quickening his pace as he crutches his way out the front doors, following slightly behind Sam as he heads towards the beater car Bobby had arranged for them to use while the Impala is getting some TLC. "What's with these people?" he mumbles, directing his question both towards his brother and to the brisk early morning air in general.

"What can I say?" says Sam with a shrug and a straight face. "It's an ER. They have a fever. And the prescription is more cowbell."

"Oh, hey!" Dean says, a genuine smile ghosting across his face. "I love that skit."

"Yeah, Dean. We know."

A/N: Dean's comfort, part of the inspiration to this story, and hopefully some humor brought to you by the Saturday Night Live sketch _More Cowbell_ with Christopher Walken.


End file.
